


so nothing's left untouched

by KelseyO



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Drinking to Cope, F/F, Hate Sex, Make Bisexual Wynonna Earp Canon You Cowards, Non-Graphic Smut, post-3x02, the ship is for fun but the Rosita feelings are the realest, the show and fandom's erasure of Rosita Bustillos is my villain origin story, this is semi-crack fic. please relax., with some yelling and hate sex and feelings, your resident Rosita stan is back!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-03 02:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15809724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyO/pseuds/KelseyO
Summary: [MAJOR SPOILERS FOR 3X02]“So let me get this straight. Dolls is dead, *not* Doc, and you’re under the impression that I’m not really here?”“Purgatory, am I right?” Wynonna deadpans with a shrug, but finds Rosita glancing at Peacemaker, and the drunken warmth swirling around her body comes to a screeching halt.Rosita sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Well this blows.”(In which my favorite ostracized Revenant returns to pay her respects to the wrong man, and yelling, orgasms, and feelings ensue. Title from "Flaws" by Bastille.)





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd and generally pushed along by Becca. 
> 
> Special shout-out to AO3 user Delayne for yesterday's comment on my other Wynonna Earp fic, which gave me the extra motivation to finish this chapter.
> 
> If you choose to leave a comment, be kind. If you want a moderately steady stream of Rosita feelings, follow me on twitter at goneawayawhile.

She vaguely remembers demanding a full bottle of whiskey but absolutely does _not_ remember reaching the bottom of it, and fuck this empty, worthless vessel, and she _really_ needs to hunt down a liquor witch who can magic her up a Flask of Infinite Jack.

A tired laugh bubbles up from her throat and she slides the bottle a little ways down the counter, then pulls out Peacemaker, presses her cheek to the cold wood, and squints one eye as she aims at the center of the label.

“That bullet’s gonna go wide,” says a voice behind her.

Wynonna rolls her eyes something fierce and swivels wildly on her stool so she can point the barrel at some _one_ instead of _something_ , only to scoff at the person sitting next to her and let Peacemaker clatter to the countertop. “First Mama talks me off a cliff, and now you’re giving me shit about target practice,” Wynonna slurs. “What’s next? That douchebag who broke up with me via text message in eighth grade gonna take me to the dentist?”

“I wasn’t giving you shit,” Rosita says, “I was trying to stop you from shooting that poor bastard you were aiming at a second ago. Last I heard, it’s disrespectful to spill blood in a dead man’s bar.”

“Dead man’s what?” Wynonna echoes under her breath, then decides she doesn’t give a shit and reaches over the counter to help herself to the nearest bottle.

Rosita glances around the room. “Look, I’m just here to pay my respects. That’s it.”

Wynonna blows across the opening of the bottle to make a long musical note, just for fun. “Well, you missed one hell of a hilltop memorial. Cold as…the opposite of Satan’s buttcrack,” she finishes thoughtfully, then downs a large gulp. “Pretty sure I saw Doc shed one single manly tear—”

“What did you say?”

She slams the bottle against the counter, sending drops of Jack flying. “There was moisture. I swear to god.”

Rosita is staring at her. “Doc…?”

“Cried,” Wynonna confirms. “I _think_.”

“He’s alive?”

Now Wynonna squints at her over another sip of whiskey. “Far as I know.”

“Whose memorial were you just talking about?”

She holds the liquor on the back of her tongue for an extra second, letting the burn numb her words just a little. “Agent Xavier Dolls,” she says, pausing between each part of his name. “Great smile, great butt, and also part dragon.” Wynonna doesn’t really pay attention to Rosita as she speaks, but then the bottle is very rudely yanked from her grip and she watches Rosita down the whiskey like water. “What the hell,” she whines, “I didn’t know a hallucination could steal my booze.”

Rosita swallows hard and holds the bottle in a white-knuckle grip. “So let me get this straight. Dolls is dead, _not_ Doc, and you’re under the impression that I’m not really here?”

“Purgatory, am I right?” she deadpans with a shrug, but finds Rosita glancing at Peacemaker, and the drunken warmth swirling around her body comes to a screeching halt.

Rosita sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Well this blows.”

Wynonna lunges, but all Rosita has to do is lean over; Wynonna whooshes right by her and lands hard on the floor, and it takes her multiple tries to sit back up.

“You realize you left your friend up here, right?” Rosita asks, miming the shape of a gun with her fingers.

“So judgemental today,” Wynonna huffs. “Gimme.”

Rosita arches an eyebrow. “I’m not gonna hand you your weapon that can kill me, specifically.”

Wynonna shakes her head. “No, not the—I want the _bottle_ , you idiot.”

She reaches for the Jack and Wynonna wraps her arms around Rosita’s legs, then uses her full body weight to twist her off the stool with a grunt from both women.

“Oh, it’s gonna be like that?” Rosita mutters, shoving Wynonna’s hands away each time she tries to grab hold. “I really don’t want to fight you while you’re mourning—”

Wynonna sucker-punches her in the mouth. “Suck my dick, Revenant.”

Rosita runs the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip, checking for damage. “Feel better?”

“Getting there.”

“I know I said I didn’t want to fight you,” Rosita says, grabbing Wynonna’s wrist as she strikes a second time, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t.” She throws her backwards and Wynonna knocks over a stool, then reaches for the bottle instead of the gun and drinks multiple gulps. “How’s your drunken bar brawl record these days?”

“Better than your baby-snatching record,” Wynonna retorts, swinging her fist again, and this time she draws blood.

Rosita spits a glob at the floor and wipes the rest away with the back of her palm. “Alright, let’s hear it. Tell me exactly how much of an asshole I am.”

Wynonna buries another long sip. “The _asshole-iest_.”

“Really? That’s all you got?” Rosita challenges. “The floor is yours, Earp. Come on. Soulless demon, here. Rip me a new one.”

“We never should’ve trusted you,” Wynonna continues bitterly, setting the bottle back down and taking a step toward Rosita. “Revenants don’t do anything for free, and sleeping with Doc Holliday can only get you so far.” She gets closer, and Rosita doesn’t move an inch. “And you waited until I was bleeding on the goddamn pool table to show your true colors.” Wynonna glances longingly at the Jack behind her, but stands her ground. “And _screw you_ for trying to take my child.”

Rosita’s posture is rigid and unafraid. “Screw you for threatening to kill me.”

Wynonna pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Kill you _last_ ,” she snaps, “as a gesture of goodwill, which you completely did _not_ deserve.”

“What _do_ I deserve?” Rosita asks suddenly, staring Wynonna down a she says it. “If not your trust, if not being at the end of your famous murder queue, then _what_?” she demands, stepping into Wynonna’s personal space on the final word.

Wynonna is seething, all but boiling alive in her own skin, and the whiskey buzzing through her system is making a lot of _You wouldn’t have the balls_ shit turn into _Triple-dog-dare you, bitch_ shit, but she mostly kind of can’t get over this way Rosita is _looking_ at her.

(She has no idea if it’s intentional, but damn if it isn’t working.)

“Everybody out!” she barks, glancing around the bar so they all know that yeah, dickwad, I’m talking to you. Only a few of the dozen patrons make any move to leave, so she grabs Peacemaker and cocks it loudly. “ _OUT_.”

They all scramble and she still waves the gun lazily around in the air to emphasize her instruction; when the last person is over the threshold, she closes the front doors, unbuckles her belt as best she can without putting Peacemaker down, then fastens the leather around both doorknobs to seal them in.

“So this is it, huh?” Rosita calls out to her. “Time to face the fire?”

“Something like that.” Wynonna walks slowly towards her, kicking off her boots and letting her jacket fall from her shoulders along the way; Peacemaker is the last to hit the floor, then Wynonna’s lips are against Rosita’s ear. “Can you do me a favor?” she murmurs.

She doesn’t get an answer, but feels a set of fingertips glide through her hair and carefully pull her closer, and she only has Rosita’s earlobe between her teeth for a split second before their mouths connect.

Every kiss is feverish and delicious, like a thousand simultaneous shots of top-shelf whiskey that slide across her tongue just right, but glass is hard and Rosita is so _soft_. Wynonna’s hands are already behind Rosita’s knees, lifting until legs clamp around her hips and she stumbles forward a half-step and Rosita’s back hits a column and holy _shit_.

The friction takes her breath away and she pushes until Rosita is gasping into her mouth, then swings them around and miraculously finds a nearby table to set her down on gently- _ish_.

“Wynonna,” she manages, and Wynonna takes a breath to tell her that whispers of sweet nothings ain’t required in this scenario, but she’s interrupted by her shirt being pulled over her head and flung in some unimportant direction.

She bites Rosita’s neck hard as a reward then runs the flat of her tongue along the mark. “Do Revenant hickeys heal faster?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Rosita says, and she rakes her nails down Wynonna’s back in the same moment that Wynonna’s hand slips into her jeans.

If she tried to claim she was one-hundred percent ready and prepared for the wetness at her fingertips, it would be the filthiest lie she ever told. She almost doesn’t know what to do with it, but then Rosita’s hips do some things and Wynonna’s like, oh, _right_ , and she echoes the movements and earns her first moan.

“There’s a joke somewhere about me being good with triggers,” Wynonna says as she pushes a little here, pushes a little there.

Rosita’s back arches against the table. “Are you one of those people who talks the whole time?”

Wynonna puts her body weight behind the next stroke and rips a breathy obscenity from Rosita’s throat. “It’s not like you’re being quiet down there.”

Two strong hands shove her away and she stumbles back an embarrassing number of steps, far enough for her ass to collide with—she glances over her shoulder—the pool table.

“Well, isn’t that poetic,” she grumbles to no one in particular, then zeroes in on Rosita and all of the stupid clothes she’s still wearing. “Wait wait wait,” she says, making a time-out gesture then pulling Rosita closer by the hem of her shirt. “Can I rip it off?”

“I love this shirt.”

“It’d be hella sexy and dramatic.”

Rosita leans in even closer, mouth against Wynonna’s ear. “I’d fucking kill you.”

“You’d fucking try.”

And with that her feet are off the floor, her back is flat against the billiard felt, and the person she’s spent months brainstorming the perfect pre-Peacemaker one-liner for is burying herself in every part of Wynonna—her hair, her mouth, the heat between her legs, and Wynonna can barely keep track of where each bite and scratch and otherwise pleasurable sensation is coming from.

“It’s… _so_ annoying,” she manages, “how good you are at this.”

Rosita sits up, breathing hard. “Want me to stop?” she asks way too innocently.

“I’d fucking kill you.”

Wynonna flips them over and makes it her personal mission to discard Rosita’s clothes as quickly as possible (and without any destruction of fabric, thank you very much), then Rosita finally gets Wynonna’s pants off her legs and there’s so much _skin_ and she keeps trying to remind herself that this Revenant flesh and muscles and bones.

There’s not a single nerve ending in her body that gives a shit.


	2. part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this 1,800+ words was one of the most therapeutic experiences of my life. Don't @ me.

She startles awake, the same way she has for months.

Wynonna’s arm and leg are sprawled across her but she doesn’t stir, just keeps snoring softly behind a wall of sweat-damp hair, seemingly unaware of how hard Rosita’s lungs are working next to her.

Deep breaths, she tells herself, in and out, but then she thinks about the other deep breaths that have happened on top of this pool table, of legs and bodies and hearts split wide open in the form of a tiny human bundle, and her skin burns where it touches Wynonna’s. She extracts herself from Wynonna’s limbs, yanks the nearest shirt over her head, and shoves her feet into her boots, then nearly breaks the front doors off their hinges before she finally gets the belt unfastened.

A dim lamp on the wall is all that illuminates the front stoop as she bends over and retches into the snow, wondering between dry-heaves how much of this is hangover versus panic attack, then laughs breathily as she spits out the rest.

What’s the use of being a demon if you’re still so fucking human?

She sinks down to the rough wood and hugs her knees against her chest, peering out into the silent, wintry darkness, thinking about white knuckles and bruising touches and all sorts of other things that she’s been so sure would end with a supernatural pistol in her face and a bottomless pit of brimstone beneath her feet.

Rosita only feels the cold.

“You didn’t get away with stealing my kid,” Wynonna says from behind her. “What makes you think youll’ll get away with stealing my shirt?”

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t move at all; for once, she’s not worried about defending herself.

Wynonna takes a labored seat beside her, already shivering as she pulls her jacket tighter, then sighs. “And you didn’t even bring anything to drink.”

“Neither did you.”

“You got me there, Bustillos.”

Rosita inhales the icy air, letting it fill her chest until it hurts, wishing Wynonna would say something and wishing _she_ would say something and wishing she hadn’t built herself a half-decent life in Purgatory only burn it all to the ground.

“I’m really not good at this,” Wynonna tells her, gentler than she expects, “so you’re just gonna have to spit it out.”

Her pulse is a jackhammer and her skin feels hot in the middle of all this frozen tundra and it’s entirely possible she might vomit again. “What I did,” she forces out after several beats, “what I tried to do… was unforgivable. I know that.” Just like she knows her voice is quiet, as much as she feels like the whole damn town can hear her every word. “I’ve thought about it every day,” she admits. “The way you looked at me. Waverly with Peacemaker. All the individual moments that led up to…” Rosita shivers. “Sometimes I can’t help it, and you assholes are just… hangin’ out in my brain, like you own the place. But sometimes…” She shakes her head and lets out a deep, tired breath.

“Come on,” Wynonna says playfully, “don’t leave a girl hanging.”

“I care, okay?” Rosita blurts with a lot more effort than she would ever admit. “I, the heartless Revenant straight from the depths of hell, care about a bunch of dumb, annoying, reckless humans. You… and Waverly… and Haught… even Jeremy.”

“Almost too gay to function,” Wynonna adds, “but a damn good scientist nonetheless.”

Rosita looks at her now, square in the eye. “I’m allowed to care about me, too,” she says, the words as firm and forceful as she can manage. “I’m allowed to want to live.”

Wynonna’s jaw muscles seem to chew on the words. “You got me there, Bustillos,” she says again after a beat, but this time there’s a weight to her voice. Wynonna starts shaking her head a little, then a lot, and finally she bursts. “Why did you let me say all that shit to you earlier? You may not have… _necessarily_ ,” she continues carefully, “deserved some of it.”

“You needed a punching bag,” Rosita mutters with a shrug. “Might as well be an invincible one.”

“But I mean. You clearly still have…” Wynonna gestures vaguely at the space between them. “Feelings. And whatever.”

Rosita says nothing.

Wynonna doesn’t either, until a long silence later when she clears her throat. “Well, thanks. I guess. For that. And…” She takes a deep breath. “And for keeping Dolls going as long as you did. Him going out in a _literal_ blaze of glory may have been inevitable, but it would’ve happened a lot sooner without you.”

“Wow,” Rosita says, chuckling softly, “I can’t say I ever expected to get a ‘thank you’ from Wynonna Earp.”

“I can’t say I ever expected to put my hand in your pants.”

Her laugh is more genuine this time. “Purgatory, am I right?” she jokes, but she’s also shivering more now, and she blows into her palms for warmth. “Speaking of which, it’s like, the opposite of Satan’s buttcrack out here.”

“If you want,” Wynonna offers, “I have a friend who can get you into the warmest place imaginable.” Rosita throws her a _very_ cautious glare and Wynonna holds up her hands innocently. “Yes, I agree, bad joke. But,” she emphasizes, “a joke nonetheless.” She looks Rosita in the eye. “Promise.”

She stares Wynonna down until she’s satisfied with the sincerity she sees—not that she’s under any impression that she deserves it, but it still helps.

“Also, speaking of Waverly,” Wynonna continues suggestively.

Rosita full-on winces. “Do we have to?”

“Babygirl has annoyingly good taste in women.”

“Oh god,” Rosita whines in horror, “she told you.”

“Briefly,” Wynonna assures her. “No details were given. And none are needed. Just wanted you to know that I know.”

Rosita scoffs. “What, so the next time we make out, we can both think about your little sister?”

“The next time?” Wynonna echoes, and Rosita’s face burns in the icy air.

“I-I mean… not that—” she stutters, but quickly gives up in favor of resting her forehead on her knees. “God, I hate you.”

Wynonna gets to her feet. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she sighs dismissively and offers her hand.

Rosita takes it and lets Wynonna pull her up, lets her eyes wander to Wynonna’s mouth for the briefest split second, and lets their hands stay connected as they cross the threshold back into Shorty’s.

Wynonna refastens the belt around the doorknobs and Rosita examines the dusty old fireplace in the back corner of the space, shifting charred logs around with the iron poker and watching them crumble uselessly to the brick below.

“There’s firewood in the basement,” Wynonna mutters beside her.

She’s halfway down the stairs before Rosita thinks to follow, and her chest tightens as she descends into the mess of furniture and miscellaneous bar debris. “What the hell happened down here?”

Wynonna sets an old chair upright. “I’ll tell you what’s _about_ to happen, “ she replies, then stomps on a loose leg with her full body weight and it snaps off. “A whole lot of overdue therapy.”

Rosita watches her break off each wooden leg and arm until they’re a pile of rubble at her feet, then find a small end table and repeat the process; she decides to leave Wynonna to it and instead glances around at the mess of chemistry supplies strewn about the room, at the remnants of what now feels like a past life, and makes her way over to the cot.

The linens are neatly wrapped around mattress, not showing a single stain that would allude to the blood, sweat, and tears this room sees on an all-too-regular basis, and she wonders exactly how much Waverly has done to protect Wynonna from her grief.

“I’m sorry,” she finds herself saying.

Wynonna’s stream of karate-chop grunts pause. “Beg your pardon?”

Rosita’s eyes stay on the bed. “I’m sorry about Dolls, Wynonna. I’m sorry you lost him.”

“Yeah. Well.”

The words are gruff, but they stop there, and then Wynonna is standing next to her with arms crossed tight across her chest, staring down at the mattress like Rosita.

Wynonna allows herself a few deep breaths, then a sigh. “Me too.” She reaches down without warning and yanks the blanket loose, crumples it into a large ball, and hands it to Rosita. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

She scoops up her furniture fragments and together they go back upstairs; Wynonna chucks everything into the fireplace and tops it with a match while Rosita spreads the blanket out on the floor, then she realizes Wynonna is staring down at the flames as they grow.

“Hey,” Rosita says gently, reaching out to perform whatever comforting gesture she comes up with in the next five seconds, but Wynonna’s faster—she grips the hem of Rosita’s (her) shirt and pulls, tosses it aside for the second time, then raises her own arms. Rosita obliges without further instruction, watches Wynonna more or less drink her in, and feels a surge of heat between her legs that has nothing to do with the fire a few feet away.

Then their lips are colliding all over again and Wynonna’s hands are everywhere and Rosita doesn’t quite know what to do with that, except try to catch up.

She hooks her fingers into Wynonna’s belt loops and pulls her down, down, down, lowers herself on top of this woman whose literal destiny it is to send her to an eternity in Hell, and wraps the blanket around them as if physically hiding from the rest of the world will negate the curse. Rosita can taste salt on her tongue and she doesn’t know if it’s drops of sweat or if Wynonna’s crying but decides it’s none of her business, decides to make it her personal mission to help them both forget about everything else for a while, and decides the best way to accomplish that is to eliminate all clothing from the equation.

When only their bare skin remains, everything changes. Wynonna slows down, but not in a bad way; before her touches were hard and fiery and dominant, but now they’re steady and intentional and… needy? Like, Rosita’s perfectly aware that their blanket cocoon gives them limited real estate, but the way Wynonna’s clinging to her—

(Makes Rosita feel more human than she has in a very, very long time.)

She doesn’t care that this will never happen again, or that Wynonna will have to keep this a secret from Waverly and Doc, or that the fingers inside of her will eventually pull the most dangerous trigger in Purgatory; what she does care about is Wynonna’s heavy breathing in her ear, and which angles earn which sounds and pitches and volumes, and how different Wynonna’s mouth tastes without its usual whiskey coating.

( _If everything was perfect,_ she hears her past self saying, _champagne wouldn’t have bubbles._

_No defect, no bubbles, no magic._ )

There’s probably a better metaphor involving whiskey barrels and the science-y things that make abrasive ingredients improve over time, but Rosita can’t think of it right now.

Not while they’re both facing their demons.

**Author's Note:**

> I miss Rosita.


End file.
